Strange Mushrooms and Double-Happy Cigarettes

Never be afraid to try new things. Or better yet, be afraid – be very afraid – but push forward and do it anyway. You may be delightfully surprised. This is how I became acquainted with White Needle mushrooms and Double-Happy cigarettes.

When one of my Chinese ESL students invited me to a dinner party at his house, I was hesitant. I told myself that my anxiety was from blurring the boundaries between teacher and pupil, but that was merely an excuse. What I was really nervous about was being the only guest who didn't speak Chinese or know anything about their culture. Sure, I can point to Guangdong or Tianjin on a map, and I can use chopsticks, sort of. But what about table manners, for example? Mealtime customs are one of the most salient features of a foreign culture. Where do you sit? Who eats first? Where do you put your eating utensils - if there are any - when you are done? Do you finish your food, or leave some on the plate? My stomach was a knot.

I stood outside in the dark, staring at my cell phone and considering if I should call him and make up some excuse for my absence. I dialed his number, held my breath,... and asked which house was his. I couldn't see the numbers in the dark.

Delighted that I showed up, he invited me inside. Even though it was after 6, I was the first one there. I stood awkwardly against the kitchen wall while he bustled about, finishing the spread. I recognized most of the food, raw in dishes crowded around an electric vat in the center. There were shrimp, crab and mussels, cabbage, tofu and rice noodles. A pile of slick red-pink raw beef looked dubious. I had to ask about the quail eggs, a pungent brown-green sauce, and some kind of long, pale mushrooms in clumped, stringy bunches. I didn't have to ask about the beverages: four bottles of American soft drinks. We chatted idly until the other guests began arriving.

First to enter was a short fellow with a toothy grin, along with my host's younger brother. I commented that, with longer hair and an inch more height, the younger and older brothers could be twins. They disagreed completely, but laughed diplomatically at my joke. A short time later a tall, talkative business student arrived with a short, soft-spoken computer programmer with hair that stuck out above his ears like the roof of a pagoda. I was relieved that they all spoke excellent English and were immediately open and friendly to me. They each in turn asked me if I was a Michigan Tech student, and what I was doing here if I was not. What was Michigan State like? Do I like snow? We talked about school and the weather while we waited for the last two guests to arrive. Finally, a lean, pale man in thin-rimmed glasses appeared with a pretty girl, eyes bright and beauty mark well-placed upon her cheek. She was warm and outgoing, and curious to know what I was doing here if not going to Tech. Her English was perfect and her laugh contagious. By contrast I never even caught the thin man's name.

I still felt a little awkward, but everyone was friendly and laughing, and I began to relax. The tall, jovial guy indicated the mushrooms and taught me the Chinese name, jīnzhēngū, making me sound out each syllable until I could properly discuss "white-needle mushrooms" in Chinese. They all found my pronunciation quite entertaining.

Finally it was time to sit down and eat. The host indicated a place next to him for me to sit. The pretty girl and the other guests took turns explaining to me how this meal works. The vat is filled with boiling water, seasoned with sesame, soy and some kind of brown lychee-like fruit bobbing around among shrimp-balls and roiling sesame seeds. Everyone selects what they want, and drops it into the vat. 'But how do you know what food is yours?' I ask. The pretty girl thought for a moment. While the food cooked, she explained that the purpose of the community vat is to create an atmosphere of familiarity and unity. Since it was impossible to determine "whose food is whose," it belongs to everyone. Nods of agreement all around confirmed her interpretation.

Only a few minutes of chat elapsed before we started chasing bobbing shrimp-balls around the vat with chopsticks. It took me a moment to properly adjust the bamboo sticks in my hand before I proceeded to fail, over and over, to capture one of those damn, slippery pink globes of gook. I gave up and went for a quail egg, and fared no better. My friends laughed good-naturedly and my pitiful chopstickery, and I laughed at myself. Finally I managed to snag a mussel, and dipped it in my fish sauce. I was surprised to discover that the brown, pungently piscine goop is actually quite delicious.

Up until now the conversation had been primarily in English, and mostly directed at me. Now that we were seated, the dinner talk switched to Chinese, with the occasional anglophone aside from my host or the pretty girl to catch me up. Eventually both of them got caught up themselves in side-conversations, but I was content to sit back and listen. A small thrill ran through me as I realized that I was beginning to detect patterns, and even recognized some oft-repeated words, making me smile through my rice noodles.

Then came my real moment of glory. I adjusted my chopsticks to imitate how Younger Brother was holding them, and focused. Like a tiger I surveyed the vat, picking out my prey: a lone shrimp-ball that had been separated from the herd. A slight irregularity in its roundness indicated a previous escape; lucky then, but now it was wounded. The time had come; I made my move. The first strike sent the shrimp-ball spinning away, a dodge to the right. I almost had it the second time, but it just barely slipped from my grasp. My strength almost out, I made one last, desperate strike, and it was all over. The whole table cheered as I raised the firmly-pinched shrimp-ball dripping from the vat. I dipped it calmly in my bowl of sauce, raised it to my lips, and tasted fishy victory.

When no one could eat any more, we sat around to chat, ate more, and cleared the table. Before I went home, Tall Man presented me with a gift: a box of cigarettes, bright lucky-red gilded with patterns of gold lace, like a tiny imperial palace with a health risk warning. Shuangxi, they were called. Double-Happy cigarettes. I tried to protest, citing the fact that I don't smoke, but my demur led to greater insistence that I accept the gift, that he wanted me to have them. How could I refuse? Smiling sheepishly I thanked him and slipped the box into my pocket, after offering a cigarette to whoever wanted one. I thanked my host for the delicious meal, said goodbye to the remaining guests, and stepped back out into the darkness.

I came home that night content, full of food, and promising myself to learn Chinese. I was invigorated. For a few hours, I left Michigan entirely; I flew around the world and met incredible people, not so different from myself as I expected. I found myself suddenly awake again, as if I had been sleeping for the last few months, not really looking around me to see the possibilities of every day.

What a fool I would have been if, standing out there in the dark, I had turned and fled instead of facing a potentially uncomfortable situation. Like my dad always told me, 'you miss 100% of the shots you don't take.' So be bold. Find out for yourself what it's like outside the box. Maybe you'll even find Double-Happiness.